


The Moons Over Minrathous

by The_Real_Fenris



Series: Magister Rising [4]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aging, Bullying, Coming of Age, Committed Relationship, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Sexual Content, Tevinter Imperium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5137970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Real_Fenris/pseuds/The_Real_Fenris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The week of Dorian’s 45th name-day brings the arrival of old friends, an old enemy, and an unexpected bit of news that could change Dorian’s life forever. And what will he and Fenris do about the children?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alexandria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write a follow-up about the children, so... this is for the hardcore fans of this series. In particular, for my darling [hirrient](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hirrient/pseuds/Hirrient).
> 
> The original series was written pre-Trespasser, so I'm just going to pretend that Trespasser events never happened. :)

The year was 9:56 Dragon.

Fifteen years had passed since the the day the Breach appeared in the sky. Many things had happened since then. The Inquisition had been reinstated. Men had walked physically in the Fade for the first time in a thousand years. Corypheus had been defeated. The Inquisition had eventually been disbanded, which meant that there had been no allies to aid Tevinter during the Great Slave Riots of ‘48-’50, in which the streets of Minrathous had literally been bathed in blood, and the entire country plunged into a turmoil from which it was only now beginning to recover.

Only one thing had remained untouched by the riots: the Circle of Magi.

Dorian Pavus stood in the stands, watching the tests. As one of the senior enchanters of the Circle of Minrathous, the duty of testing the mettle of young mages wishing to obtain the title of enchanter was usually his. But today was different.

Today it was his daughter’s turn to take the test.

There were three young mages in the arena this morning. The tests in Tevinter were nothing like the barbaric harrowings down south where young mages were thrust alone into the Fade to battle a demon. No, in Tevinter, things were far more civil. Instead, the mage was required to perform a variety of spells to prove their knowledge and mastery of the craft. Still, Dorian felt strangely anxious as Alexandria of House Pavus, the last of the three, finally took her place in the field.

_My little girl,_ Dorian thought. Maker, had it really been fourteen years since Alex had entered his life? He could still remember how small and fragile she had seemed the first time he’d seen her, alighting from the carriage at the mansion in Qarinus. And now...

_Now she’s grown-up._ Dorian knew what that meant. That she’d leave him. To go live her own life. There was a place waiting for her at her old Circle. Only the test stood in the way of his daughter’s glorious future as an enchanter of Carastes. And, even though they weren’t related by blood, she had inherited Dorian’s stubbornness. No amount of coaxing, arguing or bribery on his part had managed to make her change her mind and stay in Minrathous.

_They all leave me. Someday, I will die alone._ His father had died only a few months ago, of a heart attack. His mother five years prior, in an accident, neck broken when she’d been thrown from her horse while riding in the woods surrounding the Pavus estate. Even his Aunt Cassia had passed away years ago, one of the many victims during the riots. And because of the chaos caused by the riots, Dorian had been so preoccupied with trying to keep both his country and the Magisterium from falling to pieces, that he had lost track of most of his old friends from the Inquisition. He only knew that after the Inquisition had disbanded, his friends had scattered: Varric had returned to Kirkwall, Sera had rejoined the Red Jennies, Bull had taken his Chargers to roam over Thedas, and he hadn’t had news of his beloved Inquisitor for years. 

And, worst of all, after a decade at Dorian’s side, his best friend in all the world, Cremisius Aclassi – _that bloody bastard!_ – had left him.

Now, down in the field below, the young mage lowered her staff.

Senior Enchanter Calix spoke to the crowd. “Lords and Ladies, I present to you Enchanter Alexandria of House Pavus.”

As the crowd clapped politely, Dorian felt the pride welling up in his chest, and the tears hot as they prickled, then spilled from his eyes. From below, his daughter’s gaze found him in the crowd, her smile beaming up at him brighter than the sun over Minrathous.

Echo of Cole: _His face in the stands, watching as I pass the test. So proud there's tears in his eyes. Anything to make him happy. Anything._

Finally, Dorian understood.

As the tears of pride streaked down his face, he felt the brush of a hand against his, and then fingers surreptitiously entwining into his, hidden from any onlookers by the voluminous folds of his robes.

The hand in his was gentle. Its touch reassuring. Familiar.

As the hand squeezed his, Dorian was reminded that he wasn’t truly alone.

Dorian squeezed back.

***

As the crowd dispersed, Senior Enchanters Calix and Julian trailed behind Alex as she climbed her way up into the stands.

Dorian met her halfway down, arms opening and sweeping her into a warm embrace. “Wonderful show, my darling!” Dorian gushed. “You were absolutely _marvelous.”_

“Father!” Alex protested as she squirmed. “We’re in public!”

Dorian drew back, smiling broadly. “A father can hug his daughter in public, can’t he? Don’t tell me you’re too grown-up for that.”

Alex huffed a lock of dark hair out of her eyes. It was a bit embarrassing how expressive her father was with his affection in front of other people. _Especially_ in front of the other senior enchanters – even if they _were_ old friends of the family. And yet, the pride in his eyes made her so happy she was almost dizzy. All the years of effort to reach this moment had been worth it.

Alex’s gaze shifted over her father’s shoulder to the familiar elf that stood in his usual place behind Dorian, armed and armored, white hair swept back, in a stance that suggested he was ready to kill anyone who came too close to his master. His expression was blank, but when she met his green eyes, they briefly became warm, effused with the light of love and pride.

She would have hugged him if she could have. But in public – for as long as she could remember – she’d had to pretend as if he didn’t even exist.

“Well!” Dorian chirped. “This is a momentous occasion! We should go and celebrate.”

Alex’s dark eyes snapped back to him. “I’ve already told my friends to meet us at the Burnt Grimoire.”

“The Burnt Grimoire...?” Dorian wrinkled his nose. “You know, we could just go to the Wyvern’s Cafe.”

“Father,” Alex said patiently. “That’s a place where only old men go.”

Dorian felt a stab to his pride.

Calix laughed softly. “She does have a point, Dorian.”

Dorian clucked his tongue. “I’ve seen you there frequently enough, so I suppose that makes you an old man, as well.”

Calix stopped laughing.

Julian snickered.

“It’s my party, Father,” Alex said. “And I’ve already told everyone. So... please?”

She was using _that_ look. The big, pleading eyes look. One of the deadliest weapons in her arsenal when it came to Dorian’s soft heart. “Very well, then. Whatever the princess wants...”

***

Dorian dropped a dollop of whipped cream into both cups of hot chocolate. Licking the spoon, he passed one of the heavy red mugs to Alex. Then he leaned back against the sink, his own mug in hand, and looked at her.

Alex, sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs, wrapped both hands around the mug before taking a careful sip. Dorian fondly recalled the first time they had drunk hot chocolate together like this. She’d been home from school, at the age of ten. Late at night. Unable to sleep because of a nightmare. So Dorian had carried her down to the kitchen, deposited her on the counter in her nightgown, and fixed her cocoa. Promised that the concoction was magical, that it would chase the demons away.

Literal demons, of course. After all, Alex _was_ a mage.

“So,” Dorian chirped. “Did you enjoy the party?” Then his eyes narrowed. “And who, exactly, was that young man with the ridiculous hat who was trying to get your attention all afternoon?”

“Oh, that was just Teo. Of House Draco. He studies at the Circle here.”

A spark of interest lit up Dorian’s eyes. “House Draco, you say?”

Alex shot him a dark look. “Father. You are _not_ going to suggest that I marry Teodoro Draco.”

“And – why not? The Draco family – their lineage _is_ impressive.”

Alex snorted softly. “Because you couldn’t stand to have a son-in-law who wears such ridiculous hats.”

Dorian laughed. “Yes, that’s true.” He paused to sip his hot chocolate. He paused again to wipe the whipped cream from his mustache with a handkerchief he gracefully pulled out from his sleeve. “I suppose you’re still planning on going back to Carastes...?”

_This again._ Dorian would never make her do anything against her will. That didn’t mean he wasn’t above emotional manipulation. “We’ve already talked about this. I’m going.” Then she smiled to soften the blow. “Really, Father. Carastes isn’t that far from Minrathous. And even closer to Qarinus. I don’t know why you don’t just move back there.”

Dorian’s eyes roamed the kitchen, as though considering it for the first time. Like the rest of the dwelling, it was small compared to his ancestral home. Still, to the average man of Minrathous, it probably still seemed like the lap of luxury.

“The house in Qarinus is too big, poppet. We have more than enough room here. Besides, do you even realize how many servants are necessary just to keep things running at the mansion? We’d spend your entire inheritance in two years. This house is far more manageable. Plus, it keeps me closer to the Circle and the Magisterium.” He smiled. “Also, you know that Fenris hates traveling by boat.”

Alex snickered. Fenris may have hated traveling by sea, but not half as much as Dorian – who suffered seasickness at the first hint of rough weather – did.

And speaking of Fenris...

“Father? Can I speak to you about something?”

At her tone, Dorian’s expression took on a cast of worry. “Of course you can.”

Alex exhaled slowly. She’d been wanting to say this for a long time, but she’d never quite had the nerve. “Father... it’s not right that you treat Fenris like a servant in public.”

For a moment, Dorian didn’t react, his expression blank. Then he sighed. Voice soft. Not happy. “That’s... well, that’s how it has to be.”

“Things have changed in Tevinter.”

_Not that much,_ Dorian thought. _Not so that a magister can now hold hands in public with his male lover, especially if he’s an elven ex-slave..._ “I agree that it isn’t fair, poppet, but... not everything in life is.”

Alex’s fingers tapped lightly against her mug. “But you’re the one who taught me that we have to fight for what we think is right, no matter what anyone else says.”

As Dorian looked at his daughter, he had a strange, but familiar sensation in his body, as if his heart were wearing a glove – warm, yet constrictive. Sad, really, to recall that he’d been just as young and idealistic as Alexandria once, and wonder,  _Where has that passionate fire gone?_

Then Dorian remembered. All the evil magisters he’d tracked down and killed. The long fight to abolish blood magic. His attempts to curb the collateral damage caused by the riots, as he’d tried to keep the economy and everything else in Tevinter from falling apart. He’d spent years fighting just to not lose everything... and now... 

Now he was tired.

“Well, Fenris and I... we’re old,” he said lightly. “A bit set in our ways by now.”

Alex studied Dorian for a moment. Then she set the empty mug aside before jumping down off the counter. As she passed by him, she paused, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek.

Drawing back, she smiled. “You’re not that old, Father. My friends at the Grimoire all said you were quite handsome.”

Dorian basked in the flattery. He may have gotten older, but enjoying the compliments he still felt he was due – that hadn’t changed. “Then your friends have impeccable taste. Well, except for that Draco boy. Maker, that hat was practically a criminal act.”

As Alex slipped out of the kitchen, Dasio, who had been running the Pavus household for almost as long as Dorian had been alive, walked in.

“May I have a word with you, Lord Pavus?”

Dorian carefully set his own mug down upon the counter. Anytime Dasio asked him  _that_ question, it meant that the news was most likely  _bad._

Still, there was no avoiding the inevitable. Dorian sighed. “Of course, Dasio,” he said.

***

Later, a soft knock came upon the bedroom door.

“Come in.”

The door made a whispery sound as it swept over the carpet, and a familiar white-haired elf leaned in. “You wanted to see me?”

Alex sat in front of the vanity. Picking up the hairbrush, she held it out towards him. “Braid my hair for me?”

Fenris stepped into the room. Plucked the hairbrush from Alex’s hand as he stood behind her. Smiled at her refection in the mirror as he swept up her long, dark hair in both hands, letting it cascade down her narrow back.

“You’re skinny,” Fenris remarked. “Don’t they feed you in the Circle?”

“You wouldn’t even ask that question, if _you’d_ ever tried the food they serve in the cafeteria. Yuck.”

“Sometimes people eat for nourishment, not just for pleasure.”

Alex rolled her eyes. Then realized that Fenris had caught the gesture in the mirror. She smiled winningly at him.

Fenris snorted softly, but his lips were threatening to creep up into a smile.

Sweeping Alex’s hair into his hand, he began to brush it out, beginning from the ends.

At some point, after the riots, their old governess Faviola had left the household. Which meant that Fenris had ended up with the task of braiding the girl’s hair before bed. Long and fine, it tangled easily. He remembered the first night when there had been no one to braid it, and combing out the inevitable rat’s nest in the morning had led to a copious amount of tears. From that point on, it had become part of Fenris’ daily routine whenever Alex was home.

In silence, Fenris focused on the task. It was a familiar, comfortable sort of silence. Unlike Dorian, Fenris had never felt the need to fill the silence with chatter.

As he worked, Alex watched him. He’d changed out of his usual armor into a simple tunic and pants, feet bare, and sleeves rolled up, revealing the markings on his arms. The markings were hard to see, having faded over the years. At some point, the lyrium had begun to degenerate, seeping into his bloodstream. He’d grown sicker for months – giving the family quite a scare – until Dorian and some of his magister friends had come up with a way to burn all the lyrium out of Fenris’ blood using southern Templar techniques. After, Fenris had been alive, but he’d been left with faint scars all over his body and he’d lost the ability to tap into the Fade.

Setting aside the brush, Fenris’ agile fingers separated Alex’s hair into three dark strands. In a few more moments he was tying the braid with the red ribbon she had passed him.

Their eyes met again in the mirror as Fenris’ hands fell upon her shoulders.

In his green eyes, the warmth from earlier. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you before,” he said. “But you did well. I’m proud of you.”

Alex smiled teasingly. “But I broke my promise,” she said. When Fenris regarded her quizzically, she added, “The one where I promised that I wouldn’t do magic in front of you.”

“True. For that, your punishment will certainly be severe.” Fenris cocked his head thoughtfully. “No dessert for at least a week.”

Alex smirked at him. “Weren’t you just complaining that I was too skinny? _That_ seems like a terribly counterproductive punishment.”

Fenris hummed. “In that case... you can be the one to clean up after your father’s name-day party next week.”

“Ugh,” Alex groaned. “I’d rather go without cake.”

Fenris gave her his warmest, most unguarded smile.

“Speaking of Father’s name-day party...” she said. “I have a present for him. He’ll love it. But I’ll need your help.”

“My help?” Fenris regarded her curiously. Then: “I have a strange suspicion that this ‘present’ of yours involves magic.”

“Just... a little. It won’t even tingle.”

Fenris had certainly heard _that_ excuse before. _Like father, like daughter._ Still, saying ‘no’ to Alex had never been easy. And if it was something that would make Dorian happy... “Well,” he said a bit gruffly. “I suppose...”

Alex beamed. “Good! We can do it tomorrow afternoon. I should have everything I need by then.”

“Fine.” Sighing internally, Fenris leaned down to place a paternal kiss on the top of her head. In response, Alex reached up to squeeze one of his hands affectionately. “Now, be a good girl and go tell your brother it’s time for dinner.”

 


	2. Cynarel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for BULLYING. Please don't read this chapter if that might be a trigger.

They had backed him up against the wall of the perfumery just a few blocks from his house.

Two young men. Dressed in mage robes, magical staffs slung across their backs. They couldn’t have been much older than him.

“Hey, elf,” taunted the dark-haired one, clenching Cynarel’s jacket in his fist. “Whose dick did you suck to get such nice clothes?”

Cynarel averted his eyes. Walking alone through the Gilded Quarter, he was often subjected to bullying of this kind, and almost always from young mages such as these. And he’d heard the stories from the elven servants in the house about how some gang of humans had been tormenting elves in the streets at night, to the point of burning some of them to death with magical fire. So Cynarel didn’t dare fight back.

The fair-haired mage slapped him lightly across the face. “Come on, knife-ear. My friend asked you a question.”

Cynarel gritted his teeth. But his voice was small. “My father bought them for me.”

This merited another slap. “I doubt a little come-stain like you even knows who your father is,” the blond said. “I bet your whore mother spread her legs for every sailor in port for two bits.”

Cynarel, face hot, fumed in silence.

“You’re nothing but a parasite,” the other taunted. “You should do the rest of us a favor and slit your fucking throat.”

Suddenly, there was the impact of a knee into his groin. Breath gone. Cynarel immediately dropped to the ground as lightning bolts of agonizing pain shot up through his body. Unable to move, he wasn’t sure if he was going to shit himself or throw up. And he was vaguely certain that the blow had permanently damaged his balls.

He was only vaguely aware of their laughing at him. If they killed him, at least he would be released from the unbearable torment in his body.

Then a voice floated over in heavily-accented Tevene. Male. Authoritative. “What’s going on here?”

The bullies turned. Regarded the stranger. The dark-haired one scoffed. “Mind your own business, old man.”

“Yeah,” the other added. “Piss off before you get hurt.”

The stranger laughed darkly. “You know – my policy is that if someone asks me for an ass-kicking, then I’m obligated to give it to them.”

The blond mage jostled his friend. “Come on! Let’s teach this guy a lesson.”

The pain in his stomach and further below was so excruciating that Cynarel still couldn’t move. He was only aware of the sounds of incantations shouted, the smell of magical energy in the air, the crackle of ice, and the screams of the bullies. Muted footfalls as they hurried away.

Then the man was crouching over him.

Human. At least fifty years old. Dark hair streaked mostly gray. Gray in his beard, too. Dressed in light armor below a traveling cloak, though he held a magic staff in one hand. Eyes so amber, they seemed like melted gold in the dying sunlight.

Amber eyes swept over him. “Kicking a kid in the balls,” he muttered in the King’s Tongue. “What a couple of punks. I should’ve frozen their puny dicks off.”

Cynarel understood, but the overwhelming pain made it nearly impossible to breathe, much less speak.

“Here,” the man said in Tevene. “This should help. I’m going to touch you, but don’t take it personally.”

Warm healing energy filtered from the mage’s hands into Cynarel’s body.

A moment later, the man had pulled him up to his feet.

At most, there was only the hint of a very dull ache in-between his legs.

Cynarel looked up at the man – Maker, he was tall – and, in truth, he looked a bit scraggly, unwashed, and with frayed clothes, like a hobo. Still, his parents had instilled perfect manners into him. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said, in perfectly fluent common.

The man eyed him for a moment. “Forget it, kid,” he muttered gruffly. “Just consider not wandering around alone in the Gilded Quarter so you don’t get killed.”

Chastised, Cynarel averted his eyes, mouth tight.

A pause, then the stranger grunted. “Actually, maybe you can help me out. I’m looking for the Pavus residence.”

Green eyes shot up. “You’re looking for my house?”

The man’s eyes fixed upon him. “You work there? As a servant?”

Cynarel turned his face away, mouth grim.

A hand seized his chin, forcing him to look up. Golden eyes narrowed. Almost angrily. Then a light of recognition appeared in them. “Shit. You’re _his_ son, aren’t you?”

Uncertain, Cynarel only blinked.

“Strange how much you look like him,” the man mused as he dropped his hand. “Then again, you elves always did kind of look alike to me.”

“You... you know my parents?”

The man barked a bitter laugh. “Yeah, you could say that.” As Cynarel stood, fretting and still uncertain, the man added, “Lead on, then.”

Mind buzzing with unasked questions, Cynarel led the strange man the few blocks to his home.

Behind a black iron gate stood a gray stone building, rising three stories, that was all windows surrounded by climbing roses and ivy. Beyond the gate, the pale white stone path led to a welcoming red door, trimmed in gold. It was one of the smaller houses in this part of the neighborhood, but it still oozed wealth and decadence, like any magister’s house should.

At the gate, the stranger paused.

“Are you... coming in?” Cynarel ventured as he pushed open the gate that was magically attuned to recognize the touch of his hand.

The man stared a moment longer at the house, then began mumbling to himself. “‘Make amends,’ he said. I don’t know what I was thinking, listening to that damn dwarf...” Then his gaze swung back to Cynarel, as if only just remembering that he were here. “No. I’ve changed my mind.” As Cyn stared at him, perplexed, the man reached under his cloak to withdraw a piece of parchment, folded up and sealed in dark blue wax with a family crest that Cyn didn’t recognize. “Here. Do me a favor, though, and give this to Fenris.”

Still confused, Cynarel accepted the letter. Then watched as the man, without another word, turned and began walking back down the street from whence they had come.

Cynarel lingered a moment until the man had disappeared from sight. Tucking the letter away, he then passed through the gate, up the white path, and through the red door.

From the upper balcony, Alexandria stood, looking down at him. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere, dork face. It’s time for dinner.”

Cynarel closed the door. “Hey, Alex? If you got any more stupid, you’d need to be watered twice a week.”

“Hey, Cyn? You’re so stupid you got fired from a blow job.”

Cynarel snorted a laugh. “You win this time.”

Alex smiled winningly. “Of course I did,” she said. “Now get your skinny ass to the dining room before the Dads start yelling bloody murder.”

***

After dinner, Dorian relaxed in the sitting room with a glass of red wine from Antiva and a new book.

It wasn’t as impressive as his father’s old library at the house in Qarinus, but most of the walls were covered in shelves containing a fair portion of Dorian’s personal collections of both books and arcane objects. Also, the furnishings and rug below were all dark woods and fabrics, giving the room a cozy, sedate sort of feel. So it was the perfect place to quietly unwind after a long day.

The outside faded away as Dorian became entranced by his new novel. Something the young clerk – the one Dorian always flirted with – at his favorite bookshop had recommended in a hushed tone and with a conspiratorial wink. Really, it was poorly-written erotica – something he normally wouldn’t even deign to touch – but, unlike most books of this nature, in this book, the protagonists were both men. One a dashing magister, the other the elven slave who loved him. Despite its lack of literary merit – _Maker,_ it was hot. In fact, Dorian probably would have remained in his chair reading all night, if he hadn’t been distracted by the scratchy cough that rattled out of the man sitting across from him.

Dorian glanced up. In the opposing armchair, Fenris sat, with his own book and glass of wine. Head bent down so that his luscious white hair, still heavy, fell down over the spectacles he wore for reading.

Apparently most elves – unlike humans – didn’t suffer from thinning hair. Though their eyesight grew equally weak. Hence the reading glasses. Dorian had offered to fix Fenris’ failing eyesight with magic, but – as stubborn now as he ever was – Fenris had declined to be the subject of Dorian’s magical experiments.

“I thought you were over that cough,” Dorian said, half-concern, half-accusation.

Fenris glanced up from his book. Set down his wine glass and carefully removed the delicate spectacles, setting those aside, as well. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Dorian gave him a skeptical look. “We should send for a healer.”

 _“Dorian._ It’s nothing. Just the dry air.”

Dorian’s mouth twitched. Fenris was using his _we’re not going to argue about this_ voice. Nothing good ever came of any of Dorian’s attempts to argue once Fenris had used it. “Fine,” he muttered gruffly. “But I’m making you tea with honey later.”

Fenris smiled to soften his earlier disagreement. “I like your tea.”

“Of course you do,” Dorian said. “I make wonderful tea.”

Fenris watched as Dorian sighed, then glanced away. The mage’s eyes perused the books on the nearby shelf, but Fenris suspected that Dorian wasn’t actually seeing them. Slowly Fenris closed his book, marking the page by folding over the corner. “Dorian. What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“You were distracted all through dinner.”

Dorian knew that Fenris’ observation was not... entirely inaccurate. He’d been thinking about the problem that Dasio had dropped on him earlier in the kitchen, debating on the best course of action. Which, he decided somewhat selfishly, was to dump it directly in his partner’s lap.

“Yes, well, I heard something,” Dorian said. As Fenris quirked up an eyebrow, Dorian cleared his throat. “Did you know that your son was caught kissing one of the servant girls? That little blonde thing who works in the kitchen. What’s her name...? Oh, yes. Elsa.”

Fenris’ lips tightened into a very thin line as he digested this bit of news. “Why is it that whenever he gets in trouble, he’s ‘my’son?”

Feeling no shame whatsoever, Dorian reached up to pinch the tops of his own significantly less pointy ears.

Fenris grunted. In truth, Dorian had always been terribly bad at disciplining the children, and, whenever possible, had left such measures up to Fenris. Fortunately, Alexandria had never been a problem child. And neither had Cyn – up until the last few years, at any rate.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

Dorian couldn’t quite swallow his pleased little smirk.

Fenris glanced down to the book on Dorian’s lap before his green eyes flicked back up to Dorian’s face. “What are you reading?” he asked. “It must be good, as you were quite engrossed by it.”

“Oh, this?” Dorian said smoothly, even as his hand fell down across the book as if trying to cover up the evidence. “Nothing special. Just a little thriller.”

Fenris smirked. “It must be thrilling, with a title like _Slave to Love.”_

_Kaffas!_

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “You’d better not let that book give you any ideas, Dorian. If you even  _think_ the words ‘master and servant’ in the bedroom, I will make you sleep on the divan. For a week.”

_Vishante kaffas!_

Dorian cleared his throat, then lied. “The thought never even crossed my mind,  _amatus.”_

***

Late the next morning, Fenris knocked on his son’s door, then entered.

Cynarel had a rather large desk in his room, and was now sitting at it, working on one of his _projects._ Along one edge, a number of delicate tools lay in a row, while the rest of the desk was covered in parts of what Fenris recognized as being Dorian’s old dwarven clock which had stopped working years ago. 

Tacked to the wall above the desk were a number of sketches – many of them Dorian’s, but a few of them were Cyn’s. Compared to the mage’s, Cyn’s strokes were more bold, less precise, but his hands were skilled. A talent which Dorian had encouraged.

In recent years, Cyn had become quite curious with how things worked. Mechanical things, mostly. One of the first times Fenris had needed to reprimand him was when he’d decided to take Dorian’s brand new _camera obscura_ apart. 

Green eyes blinked up at him. “Yes, Poppa?”

There was another hard-backed chair in the corner. Fenris picked it up, brought it closer, and then sat down close to his son. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. Subtlety had never been Fenris’ style, so he didn’t mince words. “Dasio says you were caught kissing the girl who works in the kitchen.”

At that, Cyn blushed, all the way to the tips of his ears. Eyes darting over the objects on the desk. “And... what if I was?” he muttered. “What’s wrong with that?”

_This – do I really have to explain it?_ Fenris sighed inwardly. “She’s one of the servants.”

_And she used to be a slave._

“So?”

Yes, he definitely had to explain. “You’re an heir of House Pavus,” Fenris said patiently. “She is a servant. It is not... appropriate.”

Cyn’s gaze slid back to Fenris. “So what? Then she isn’t... good enough for me?”

Fenris’ lips tightened. “That’s not it. The level of power between you is... disparate.”

Cynarel frowned. “You act like I  _made_ her do it,” he groused, petulant. “And I didn’t  _ask_ to be an heir of House Pavus.”

Now it was Fenris’ turn to frown. The entire affair had been kept as quiet as possible, but Dorian  _had_ legally made the elven boy his heir along with Alex. He was lucky. Most elves didn’t have such an opportunity. He had wealth and freedom far beyond what most elves in Tevinter could even dream of. 

_Kissing girls._ Fenris had to remind himself that it was normal for boys his age to be interested in such things. That no argument was going to change that. “If you’re going to chase girls, you should stick with those of your own class.”

Cyn averted his eyes again. Were they really going to keep talking about this? The entire conversation was mortifying.

Except that he was angry, too. “My own class? Poppa, you know what they’re like. They just look at us and see  _knife-ears._ We’re no better than  _servants_ to them. We’re second-class citizens.”

Fenris squeezed his own hands together, silent.

Cyn’s fingers ghosted over the gears and springs scattered across the desk. “You were down south before,” he reflected. “I don’t know why any elf would choose to come back  _here.”_

The boy had a point. Once he’d escaped, Fenris had entertained no notions of ever returning to Tevinter. Hawke’s betrayal had forced him back, but once he’d regained his memories, he ran again, with no intention of ever coming back. Except, then...

_Dorian._ His glorious, beautiful, fire spell-slinging love. The man who had promised him Tevinter on a plate, basted with the blood of a thousand magisters. Not only promised, but had  _delivered._ The man who had ushered his country into a new era. 

And, yes, slavery was a thing of the past, but that did not mean that every elf had a better life. In Minrathous, the elven slums had swollen nearly three-fold, and more hovels had appeared, dotting the shore of the mainland outside the city. Sadly, they reminded Fenris of the alienages down south.

“In the south,” Fenris said quietly, “it wasn’t any better.”

Cyn stared at him, head slightly cocked. “It can’t be any worse than _here.”_

Fenris was silent as he considered his son. The boy wasn’t  _happy._ Fenris loved both of their children, of course, and he or Dorian would never admit to having favorites, but... the commonalities did affect their bonds – the mages and the elves. More than anything, Fenris wanted to  _fix_ this. But he didn’t know how. 

How much simpler it had been when Cyn was still a child and Fenris could soothe the crying caused by a scraped knee by pulling the boy into his lap and pepper him with kisses.

Solving problems – that wasn’t his forte. No, this was something that Fenris was willing to drop right back into Dorian’s lap.

Fenris stood. Affectionately ruffled the boy’s dark, silky hair. “Go talk to your father in his office after lunch.”

Cynarel nodded. Then remembered that he still had the stranger’s letter. “Poppa – wait,” he said. Reached into the pocket of his jacket which he’d draped over the back of his chair last night to withdraw the sealed parchment. “Some man asked me to give this to you.”

Curious, Fenris accepted the letter. Turning it over in his hands, he immediately grew pale. Even after all these years, he easily recognized the seal, stamped into the dark blue wax.

It was the Amell family crest.

***

Dorian’s talk with his son wasn’t going well.

At all.

It had started out innocuously enough. The boy had admitted to kissing the kitchen girl. That it had only been a bit of fun, and not from some developing crush. And had promised not to do it again. And then Dorian had asked him to explain just exactly what had prompted him to tell Fenris that he felt like a second-class citizen.

Cyn stared down at the carpet. Scuffing his boot into it. “Just... the usual.”

Dorian didn’t like that answer. He frowned. “If someone has said something to you... well, you’re a Pavus. There’s no need to put up with that sort of behavior. If you give me the names of these boys who insulted you, I will talk to their parents to assure that it won’t happen again.”

Cynarel’s eyes flicked up to his. He made a noise of exasperation. “You don’t understand what it’s like,” he muttered. “You _can’t. You’re_ not an elf or a _soporatus.”_

Dorian’s frown deepened. That was true, but it didn’t mean that Dorian was _ignorant_ to the plight of elves, or how they were treated. It was enough that he had eyes and ears. “Then explain it to me, _carissime,”_ Dorian said, as patiently as possible. “What did these boys say?”

It wasn’t just boys. It wasn’t just words. The lingering ache between his legs was testament enough to that. All because he wasn’t _human._ “What do you even care?” Cynarel suddenly snapped. “And I don’t want to be a Pavus! Your family kept elves as slaves. You – they told me. They told me that you owned Poppa!”

Dorian remained frozen. The boy. Voice raised. To him.

 _That_ was completely unacceptable.

Dorian pushed himself up out of his chair. Slammed his hands down on the desk, loud enough to cause the boy to flinch. “I freed your poppa years ago!” he growled, his own voice rising. “How dare you imply–” Dorian cut himself off, trying to curb his anger, but unable to keep the flames from his eyes nor the utter indignation out of his tone. “Cynarel Pavus, you will _not_ speak to your father that way!”

Wide-eyed and tongue-tied, Cyn quivered under the weight of Dorian’s rage. Heart hammering as he sucked in shallow, ragged breaths. For a moment, Dorian believed that would be the end of the discussion, but then Cyn straightened his spine, chin tilted up in defiance. “You’re not my father!”

His words were like a knife, ripping right through Dorian’s heart. Flabbergasted, he could only stare as Cyn turned to storm out. To flee.

Suddenly, Dorian snapped back to his senses. With a hasty wave of his hand, he slammed the door shut just as Cyn reached it, sealing it with magic.

Cyn’s head whipped around. His expression angry, hurt.

The same expression he’d seen on Fenris’ face the last time Dorian had magically sealed the door to keep Fenris was walking out in the middle of an argument.

Dorian studied the boy. As he’d predicted years ago, Cynarel had turned into a beautiful young man. Fine-boned, with delicate features. Hair silky and dark as melted chocolate, falling down to his shoulders and into his eyes, which were green as emeralds and framed in a lush of long, dark lashes. A full mouth, with lips as soft-looking and pink as the roses in his mother’s gardens. Long, lithe limbs, and lovely hands with elegant, clever fingers.

What he hadn’t been able to predict was _this._ Cyn’s streak of rebellion, and they way it had been slowly eroding away at their relationship, lending all their interactions an almost... antagonistic undertone. Dorian couldn’t even remember how it had happened. As a child, Cynarel had been so quiet. Well-behaved. Affectionate.

But Dorian knew about rebellious boys – he’d been one. He still remembered being on the other side of the desk. Provoking – yet simultaneously fearing – his own father’s disapproval. He tried to recall what he’d felt then. Why had he done it? What had he been trying to prove?

Thirty years had passed, but the memory was still fresh. _I wanted proof that he loved me. That he would accept me. No matter what._

Love and acceptance. Funny, Dorian thought, how simple it was. That’s all he had wanted. A sign of his father’s acceptance and love.

His affection.

At some point in Dorian’s childhood – shortly after his magic had manifested – things between his father and him had changed. He was no longer encouraged to sit in his father’s lap. Paternal kisses became non-existent. Even hugging had become incredibly rare. It now occurred to Dorian that he’d been blindly following his father’s example. That he’d distanced himself from the boy.

And yet, he was always lavishing his daughter with attention. Kisses on her forehead. Warm embraces. Affectionate pats on the cheek.

_Because everyone knows your tastes, Dorian Pavus. If you touch your daughter in public, no one will think your intentions are perverse. But if you put your hands on a pretty, young, elven man, they will assume that it’s sexual._

Maker, he was such a fool.

There was only one thing to do.

Dorian skirted the desk. Cyn watched him apprehensively as he approached. Then Dorian reached him. Opening his arms, he gathered the boy in, pulling him close in an intimate embrace.

At the unexpected contact, Cynarel stiffened.

Dorian ran one of his hands over Cyn’s hair. “My sweet, sweet boy,” he murmured softly. “I love you so very much,  _carissime._ I only want your happiness. Forgive me.”

Cyn made an odd, choked sound. Then the tension in his body melted away, and he leaned forward, forehead resting against Dorian’s shoulder as his arms encircled his father’s body, returning the embrace. His voice was soft, almost inaudible. “I’m sorry, Father. I... I didn’t mean what I said.”

Dorian’s hand continued to gently stroke the boy’s head. “I know, my duck. Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out.”

They stayed like that for another moment. At least until they heard the unmistakeable call of Alexandria from the other end of the hall.

“Dads! Cyn! Uncle Krem is here!”

 


	3. Cremisius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a little poetic licence with the idea of _ætas senectutis_. Traditionally, in Ancient Rome, a man reaches this stage at 46. But I needed Dorian to be turning 45 for... reasons.

Cremisius Aclassi was dressed atrociously.

Like a pirate.

 _“Kaffas,_ Cremisius,” Dorian chided as he came into the atrium. “What the fuck are you wearing?” He cast a glace at the Rivaini woman beside the redhead. “Isabela’s doing, no doubt.”

“Father!” Alex protested. “Language!”

Fenris, who had arrived before the others, snickered.

Krem raised an eyebrow. Familiar laughter in his eyes. “We came all the way from Starkhaven, and this is how you greet us?”

Isabela smiled. “Sweetling, we’ve had less polite greetings. Such as when our old friend Etienne greeted you with a knife to the throat, remember?”

“Yeah. Hard to forget that. Though, in his defense, he was drunker than a Qunari on dragon’s blood.”

“Yes, yes, you certainly lead an interesting life,” Dorian grumbled. Then, “Well, let me have a good look at you, then.”

Krem lifted both arms, turning slightly this way and that, as Dorian thoughtfully stroked his mustache.

Below a felted, brimmed cap with an ostentatious feather in it, Krem’s rich red hair fell softly down to his shoulders. Beneath a plush, wide-sleeved, purple coat trimmed in fur, he wore a pale linen shirt beneath a tight jerkin made of brocade and silk. Tight worsted trousers and square-toed ankle boots completed the look.

He looked... _dashing._

And on his left ring finger, he wore a simple gold band.

A glance at Isabela’s hand quickly confirmed Dorian’s new, nagging suspicion.

“Wait,” Dorian said. “Are those... wedding rings?”

Grinning, Isabela held up the hand with the ring, fingers wiggling. “It had to happen someday. Someone finally made an honest woman out of me.” Then she laughed. “No one ever thought that possible. _Especially_ me.”

Suddenly, Alex was squealing. Bubbling over with excitement, she enthusiastically hugged first Isabela, then Krem. “Oh, Maker! You’re married! That’s wonderful! Oh! Does this mean we should call you Aunt Isabela from now on?”

Isabela ran her fingers affectionately through Alex’s hair. “Whatever makes you happy, kitten.”

It took a moment for Dorian to recover from his shock. A quick glance at Fenris confirmed that the elf was equally surprised by this news. Cynarel hung back, indifferent on the subject of marriage as only a sixteen year old boy could be. “I... when? How?” Then Dorian’s expression became pained. “And – why weren’t we invited?”

Krem’s smile turned sheepish. “Ah, we... well, it sorta happened on a whim about a week ago. At sea. We didn’t want to make a big fuss or nothin’, so we kept it simple.”

Alex was still beaming. “We should celebrate!” Whirling, she gave her sweetest smile to Dorian. “Right, Father?”

“Actually,” Isabela drawled. “We came here to celebrate your father’s name-day. Krem said that in Tevinter, turning forty-five is, like, _quite_ a big deal.”

“Yeah,” Krem said, eyeing Dorian with a wicked grin. “A milestone. So important that it has a name:  _ætas senectutis.”_

Two emotions battled for dominance in Dorian’s heart. On the one hand, his beloved Cremisius had not only remembered his birthday, but had, apparently, cut his honeymoon short in order to come spend it with him. On the other hand, he didn’t like to be reminded that he was now entering the fifth of the six stages of life. The age of seniority. Which meant that he was leaving _ætas iuventatis_ – the age of youthful manhood – behind.

_It’s official. I’ll be an old man._

Dorian put on a cold smile. “We’re delighted that you’re able to join us,” he said, his tone almost cheerful. Then his eyes narrowed. “Of course, if you even mention my age again, I  _will_ set you both  _on fire.”_

_***_

They’d spent the afternoon catching up. Then, after dinner, Isabela retired so the three men could relive the old days by drinking brandy and playing Diamondback together in what served as the Pavus game room – at the small table in the sitting room. 

In hindsight, threatening to set Krem on fire had been a terrible idea, because it meant that Krem had made a remark about Dorian’s approaching age of seniority at least once an hour. There were certain things that Krem never teased Dorian about – in particular the fact that he’d taken up with an elf, and their rather nontraditional – especially in Tevinter – family. But Dorian’s vanity had never been one of the exceptions.

“Hey, elf,” Krem said once the hour had grown late, “you realize this means your boyfriend’s ancient, right?”

Fenris snickered softly. Dorian had noticed that Fenris had been quiet all night. Not that he wasn’t  _usually_ quiet, but whenever Krem came to visit, Fenris generally became more animated. Also, he’d very subtly, but steadily, been drinking more than usual. They would talk later – but Dorian assumed that it had to do with his concerns about Cyn. That is was nothing  _pressing._

Green eyes glittered. “You know who else is ancient, human?” he said with a coy smile. “You. In a few more years.”

Dorian smiled as Krem scowled. “That’s... that’s a low blow, elf.”

“And I suspect,” Fenris continued, “that the only reason you’re wearing that hat is to hide the fact that you’re losing your hair.”

Krem blinked. Then reached up to pull off his hat.

Soft red hair fell down around his face. Really, it was not obvious, but the hairline around Krem’s temples had started to recede, just a little. If Dorian hadn’t spent ten years with that hairline, he might not even have noticed.

Nonetheless – he was still _dashing._

“You know,” Dorian said. “There are spells that can keep a man from losing his hair.”

Dorian suggesting magic as a solution was nothing new. Krem fingered his glass. “That explains your glorious locks, then.”

“Who, me? Oh, no. This,” Dorian said, sweeping a hand near his face, “is the product of generations of careful breeding. All natural, I assure you.”

“Lucky you,” Krem murmured, then lifted his glass, tossing back the last swallow before reaching for the bottle.

As Krem moved to refill Fenris’ glass, the elf placed his hand over the tumbler. Then set down his cards. “I’m going to bed.”

Dorian smiled fondly at Fenris as he retreated.

_Love,_ Krem thought. Even after all these years, it was obvious that his two friends still loved each other deeply. Krem had watched the dance from the beginning. Fenris, jealously insecure any time another man caught Dorian’s wandering eye. Dorian’s almost comically puzzled looks at Fenris when the elf wasn’t looking, as if he were questioning how Fenris could still be here, with him, and that their relationship was  _real._ Now, though, they were completely relaxed around each other, all that insecurity worn away by time.  _Like an old married couple._

As Dorian turned back to him, Krem fixed him with a serious stare. “I didn’t want to ask while he was in the room, but... is Fenris okay?”

“Ah,” Dorian murmured. Of course Krem had picked up on Fenris’ mood. “To tell the truth...” Dorian trailed off with a sigh. “It’s Cynarel. The boy’s not happy in Tevinter. And Fenris and I... well, we’re at a loss what to  _do_ with him.”

Krem thought. Most elves in Tevinter – those without magic skill – worked as servants or in other forms of menial labor. Even those who were better off, such as shopkeepers, tended to operate in the elven slums, to strictly elven clientele. Krem doubted that a single house in the Gilded Quarter was owned by an elf. “You know what it’s like here for the elves.”

A bit of worry darkened Dorian’s eyes. He fretted. “I...  _of course_ I know what it’s like. I...” Then something shifted in Dorian’s expression, his tone sharp. “I offered to leave Tevinter. To take the children and go down south. But Fenris –” 

“Dorian,” Krem said firmly. “You don’t need to get so bloody defensive. Fenris truly doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks. And we’re talking about Cynarel, not Fenris.”

Dorian hadn’t been able to get Alex’s remark about how he treated Fenris like a servant in public out of his head. Instead it lingered, like an uninvited guest. Rankling him. As if he were some sort of insensitive cad.

His shoulders slumped. “I... yes. We are.”

Krem thought again. “Cyn... does he still like taking things apart? Mechanical things?”

Dorian lit up with a bit of pride. “Oh, yes. He just fixed my father’s old dwarven clock – you know, the one I could never quite get to work properly.”

Krem paused. Then, very softly, very slowly, said, “I might have a suggestion.”

“Well, do go on, Cremisius. I’m literally at my wits end.”

Krem watched Dorian’s expression as he sketched out his idea. It shifted from curious, to perplexed, and then to one of concern. Krem finished, then waited as Dorian contemplated what he’d just said.

“That isn’t a terrible idea,” Dorian said. Then, two heartbeats later, “Fenris isn’t going to like it.”

“If you prefer, we can forget I said anything.”

“No, no,” Dorian said quietly. “Just... I suppose you should talk to the boy. See what he thinks. If he’s agreeable to the idea... well, leave Fenris to me.”

Krem smiled gently. “Sure thing, Chief.”

Memory prompted Dorian’s lips to curve.

The cards lay on the table, forgotten. Glasses discarded, half-empty. The hour late.

Then Krem remembered. “Oh, I have something for you. Something the Iron Bull sent along. A present for your name-day.”

Krem and Isabela had been better at staying in touch with some of their old comrades, so they’d had news of the Inquisitor – who’d returned to his clan, Varric – who was still busy penning his terrible novels in Kirkwall, and the Iron Bull – who had retired from his role as leader of the Chargers and was now running a bar he’d bought in Cumberland.

Dorian brightened. “A present? For me? From Bull?” He watched with interest as Krem reached into the knapsack he’d kept at his side, withdrawing a wooden box about the length of a man’s arm, which he set upon the table. Dorian placed his fingers upon it, then hesitated. “I suppose I should wait until it’s actually my name-day.”

Krem’s lips twitched up in a half-smile. “Might be better if you opened it without an audience.”

Dorian – curious, impatient – flicked up the latch and opened the box.

His eyes widened as he considered the object inside. “Maker...” he muttered. “Is that... what I think it is?”

Mirth danced in Krem’s eyes. “Bull had it made for you. Out of glass, but magicked so you don’t have to worry about it breaking. Oh, and he wanted to make sure I told you that it was an exact replica.”

_Exact replica?_ Flames, it was just...  _huge._ Dorian had never seen one that large before – in the flesh or otherwise. “This...” he sputtered. “Just what...  _kaffas, why?”_

“Said he’d enjoy the thought of you knowing what you’ve been missing out on.” Krem sniggered. “And trying it out.”

At the thought of actually doing  _that,_ Dorian felt the heat in his face, and was infinitely grateful that his skin tone was dark enough where a blush usually went unnoticed. “I’m...  _no._ Ugh.” Dorian quickly snapped the lid of the box definitively shut. “No one is trying anything out. Definitely  _not.”_

***

The next day, Krem found Cynarel in one of the armchairs in the sitting room, a large tome open in his lap. Green eyes flicked up as Krem sauntered over, sinking down into the other chair.

This was a good place to have this talk. Like adults. Sitting eye to eye, surrounded by the words of dead men.

Krem glanced at the book in the boy’s lap. “Reading anything good?”

“Studying,” Cyn replied. In truth, Cyn didn’t mind studying, but for some reason he always tended to fall behind in his homework, which always displeased his tutors. Which, in turn, displeased his parents. _“Tales of the Destruction of Thedas.”_

“Genitivi, then,” Krem noted. History wasn’t really Krem’s thing – though he indulged in pulp fiction every now and then – but Dorian’s adoration of Gentivi meant that Krem was rather well-versed in his works. “You like it?”

Cyn thought. “Did you know that in Tevinter they used to burn people at the stake? They thought it was the most painful punishment possible.”

“Yeah,” the ex-bodyguard admitted. “Tevinter is like that. Everything in excess. No shades of gray.”

Cyn became quiet. While growing up, Krem had been an important part of his life. Human – but not a mage. And Krem was very good at keeping any secrets that Cyn had – such as who had tracked mud into house, or who had broken one of Dorian’s heirloom vases, for example.

Cocking his head, Cyn considered Krem. “Uncle? You’ve lived down south. Is it really that different?”

“Depends,” Krem said. “Some parts, like Orlais, are a lot like Tevinter. If you mean what it’s like for elves, well... it ain’t that great. But some places are more tolerant than here. Down south, an elf can be a Templar. Or a Grey Warden.”

Cyn’s brow furrowed in thought.

Krem leaned back, fingers tracing over the fraying arms of his chair. “So, I heard you don’t want to stay in Tevinter any more.”

“No,” Cyn said quietly as he looked blankly down at the book in his lap. “No, I don’t.”

“So leave.”

Cyn’s gaze shot up. His uncle sat across from him. Expression serious as a sword point to the throat. Eyes fixed on him. Taken aback by the suggestion, it took Cyn a moment to find his voice. “Leave...?”

“Yeah,” the redhead said. “I know an Arcanist who could teach you. Dagna – a friend of the family. Last I heard she was looking for an apprentice. Someone who is good with their hands and knows a lot about magic.” Krem paused. “Someone like you.”

“But I can’t actually _do_ magic.”

“Neither can Dagna. She’s a dwarf.”

Cyn opened his mouth, but no words came out. _A dwarven Arcanist..._ Cyn wondered what sort of marvels there would be in her workshop. Runes, clockworks, enchanted weapons... But then he frowned. “But my parents...”

“Dorian said that Isabela and I could take you. If that’s what _you_ want.”

Cyn was silent. Thinking about leaving Tevinter. Thinking about leaving his family. Thinking about adventure.

“You don’t have to answer right away. Isabela and I will be here until the end of next week.”

Except that Cynarel had already decided.

He gave Krem his answer.

***

Fenris stood before the mirror in the master bedroom.

Staring back at him, one moody and dangerous-looking elf in silver plate and black leather that hugged his willowy, but still-muscled frame, deadly sword of silverite strapped to his back, all glimpsed through the folds of a long, dark cloak. He’d owned it for a long time, but his armor still fit him like a glove, and the heft of the weapon against his back was so very familiar.

Reaching for the letter, he tucked it away under his armor, then drew up the hood of the cloak as he slipped quietly from the room and down the empty corridors of the house.

He couldn’t feel the letter against his body, but he could feel its words, burning like a brand into his skin.

_Fenris,_

_I don’t expect that you could ever forgive me for what I have done..._

He hadn’t told Dorian about the letter. He already knew what Dorian’s reaction would be – a complete emotional breakdown, followed by a bloodthirsty rampage that would most likely end with the destruction of half of Minrathous in a quest for revenge. Nor had Fenris told anyone that he was going out. Still, he wasn’t entirely surprised when a voice called out behind him before he’d barely made it a few paces past the gate.

“Going anywhere good?”

Fenris stopped. Turned to give Isabela one of his coolest looks. “Where I’m going isn’t any of your business.”

Isabela sauntered forward a few steps, closing the distance between them, unperturbed by the harshness in his tone. “What? You think I’d miss out on your very overdue reunion with a certain old friend of ours?”

Fenris bit back an exasperated growl. Narrowed his eyes instead. “How do you even know about that?”

The pirate’s smile was all cream. “Perhaps some elves should be careful where they leave their correspondence.”

This time, Fenris did growl. “It was in a drawer. A _locked_ drawer.”

“What can I say?” she asked with perfect nonchalance. “I’m a very curious woman.”

“You’re a rogue and a cheat.”

“That, too,” she agreed amiably. “Now. Are we going, or not?”

Fenris wondered what game Isabela was playing. “No one invited you.”

“Yes, but that never stopped me from tagging along before.”

Fenris briefly considered knocking her on the head and leaving her unconscious body tucked away among the hydrangeas until he returned. The only thing that stopped him was the certainty that Krem would most likely run him through with a sword later. If Isabela didn’t back stab him first.

“If it comes to it...” Fenris said. “I will not hesitate to kill him.”

One of Isabela’s eyebrows quirked up. “Strangely, I already assumed that you weren’t going there to take tea together.”

Hard and unyielding as emeralds, Fenris’ eyes hammered into her. “If you come, you may be forced to choose sides. So, what will it be, woman? Will you choose me? Or Hawke?”

All the mirth in Isabela’s eyes drained out in an instant. “You, of course.”

Fenris stared at her in wordless surprise.

“What?” Isabela chuckled, a low, dry thing. “Of course I have to choose you. Hawke may have been good in bed and the bloody Champion of Kirkwall, but he was kind of a prick. But you, pumpkin – you’re family.” Linking her arm in his, she smiled. “And family sticks together. No matter what.”

 


	4. Fenris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is not having a good day.

Adjusting his cloak tighter around his body, Fenris entered the Smoke and Dagger.

He appeared to be alone. Isabela had agreed to stay in the shadows, and would only emerge if the situation became dire. If a sword flashed. If magic burst. If blood spilled. To confront the man who had betrayed him – this was Fenris’ right alone. At least Isabela understood a man’s need to defend his own honor. Unlike Krem or Dorian, who would have murdered first, and not asked any questions later.

Fenris knew this place. It was coincidentally the same tavern he had stayed at before while he was still the lieutenant of the Iron Bull’s Chargers, when they’d been hunting down slavers at Dorian’s behest.

Stepping over the threshold, Fenris let his gaze sweep the tavern until they fell on a familiar man sitting alone near the back of the tavern.

Garrett Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall. The first man Fenris had ever loved, who had sold him back to Danarius. Even now, so many years later that Fenris had lost count, Hawke’s words still echoed in his head.

_If you want him, he’s yours._

In his letter, Hawke had written that he would remain in Minrathous, here at the Smoke and Dagger, should Fenris wish to see him. Yet surprise still rooted Fenris in place. A part of him hadn’t actually believed that Hawke would be here. Waiting for him. Not after what he’d done.

Somehow, Fenris managed to swallow down his shock. Feet shuffling across the floor until he reached the table. Hawke’s golden eyes lifted up in recognition as Fenris slid down into the opposite chair, pushing his hood back halfway to reveal his face. Expression blank.

For a moment, the elf and the Champion stared at each other.

Hawke was the first to break the silence. Fenris had forgotten exactly how deep and gruff Hawke’s voice was, with its tone that demanded respect. “I’m surprised you haven’t ripped my heart out yet.”

Fenris hadn’t worn his gauntlets. He stared down briefly at his hands, at the useless scars. Hawke didn’t know, then, that he’d burnt the lyrium out of his flesh, that he was no longer able to ghost himself halfway into the Fade, to plunge his incorporeal fist into other men’s flesh.

He glanced back up at Hawke, considering him. Once he’d been handsome. Vibrant. Strong. But time had not been kind to him. Now, he just seemed like any other human man who was long past his prime. Face lined, hair streaked with gray, grizzled muscle and hollows in the bones of his face, making him appear almost gaunt. Almost frail. Old.

At this point Fenris realized that he no longer had any hunger for revenge.

He drew a deep breath. His voice was surprisingly steady as he met Hawke’s gaze straight on. “I forgive you.”

It was clearly not what Hawke had been expecting. For a moment, he was very still, a hint of surprise in his eyes, as he digested Fenris’ words. Then he turned his head, gaze unseeing, in thought. After a moment, he turned back to Fenris.

“I’m surprised, Fenris,” Hawke finally said. “Really? You don’t want revenge?”

“I’ve... had enough of revenge. Danarius is dead. We killed Hadriana and my sister...” Fenris trailed off with a soft grunt. “Killing them – it didn’t make me feel any better.”

Hawke toyed with the half-empty tankard that sat on the table before him. “I suppose I should consider myself lucky, then,” he said. “You’re a dangerous man. I’m still not entirely sure how Anders and I managed to keep you from killing us in the Fade.”

That was not a moment Fenris was proud of – that moment when he’d let the demon convince him to turn on Hawke in exchange for enough power to rival that of the magisters. No one was safe from temptation. Not even himself.

Fenris shook that memory loose. _His_ past mistakes were not on trial here. “Just tell me one thing, Hawke,” he growled softly. “Tell me _why.”_

Hawke met his gaze unflinchingly. Then reached up, stroking a hand over his beard before letting it fall to the tankard again.

“I didn’t know he’d wipe your memories,” he finally said. “I thought... well, fuck all, I thought you’d refuse to go. That you’d put up a fight.”

_Because you broke me, Hawke,_ Fenris thought. He’d been so crushed by Hawke’s betrayal that he hadn’t even had the will to fight. But he didn’t say this. “Better to be a mindless slave, than be a slave who remembers what it’s like to be free.”

Hawke was silent. His eyes flicked away again. “I suppose that is a small blessing.”

Hawke hadn’t answered the question about why he’d done it. Why he’d betrayed Fenris by selling him back to his old master. _Did you even love me at all, Hawke?_ Fenris thought. But he did not voice this question out loud. He already knew the answer.

“If you’ve said what you wanted to say, I will go,” Fenris announced, then stood up abruptly from the table, turning to leave.

Hawke’s voice stopped him before he’d even taken a step. “Back to your magister?”

Fenris spun around, eyes narrowed into a furious glare.

“I met him, you know. In the Inquisition. He was a cocky son of a bitch. Flashy.” Hawke paused, reluctantly adding, “Handsome, though.”

Fenris stared down at Hawke, silent. _Cocky, flashy_ and _handsome_ weren’t terribly inaccurate words to describe Dorian Pavus, so Fenris couldn’t deny it. Even though Dorian was so much _more._ He was Fenris’ _everything._

“Varric told me about your family,” Hawke added. “He said you were... happy.”

Fenris continued to stare down at Hawke for another cold, silent moment. Then he murmured, “Yes. I am.”

Before Hawke could speak again, Fenris turned once more, cloak sweeping around his ankles as he strode back across the room and out through the tavern door.

A few moments later, Isabela slipped out from the shadows and walked alongside him.

Fenris was grateful that the pirate woman was uncharacteristically silent as they made their way back to the Gilded Quarter. Through the streets, then in the carriage that Fenris flagged down, then as they made their way through the gate and in through the front door. Only once they had stepped into the foyer, did Isabela finally speak.

Placing a hand on Fenris’ arm, she offered him a gentle smile. “If you ever want to talk about it... well, you know where to find me.”

Fenris nodded, then watched as Isabela sashayed away.

As Isabela slipped out, Dasio walked in. “Lord Fenris?” he said. “Lord Dorian was looking for you. He’s in his office.”

“Thank you, Dasio,” Fenris said, handing the head servant his cloak. “I will be there shortly.”

***

Dorian’s talk with his lover wasn’t going well.

At all.

He’d been working in his office when Fenris arrived – if by working, one meant sketching obscene doodles on a letter from a mage he despised, one who had persistently been trying to vie favor from _the Illustrious Magister Pavus_ for many months now. Although the sycophant in question was a young man, he reminded Dorian of the old magisters they’d destroyed – ones willing to pay any price for power. In fact, the last time they’d met, at a party, the man – who had no reputation of being queer – had made some very explicit innuendos about what he’d allow Dorian to do with him in bed.

In fact, Dorian was wondering how he could scrape this turd off his shoe without resorting to murder when the soft knock came at the door before Fenris stepped in.

The talk had started off well enough. Fenris had listened attentively as Dorian explained their plan to send Cynarel south with Isabela and Krem. Dorian had presented his arguments with all the tact and logic in his possession. Except that the more Dorian talked, the more terrible Fenris’ expression became.

Finally, Dorian finished his speech, with a gentle, “So, you see, _amatus_ – it really is the best solution.”

_No._ This was not acceptable. Fenris growled at him fiercely. “He’s just a boy!”

Dorian placed his hands flat on the desk. Mouth tense as he considered the elf. Whenever Dorian raised his voice to Fenris, it was never because he was angry at Fenris. No, Dorian only ever raised his voice to Fenris when he was angry about someone or something else. Fenris, on the other hand, only ever raised his voice to Dorian when he was angry at Dorian. So Dorian couldn’t delude himself that he wasn’t the target of his lover’s anger.

Still, this was precisely the reaction he’d expected, and so he’d been bracing himself for it.

“He’s sixteen,” Dorian pointed out quietly. “Practically a man.”

Fenris’ fingers twitched. Not quite curling into fists, but close. “Sixteen is still not a man!”

Dorian watched for a moment as Fenris started pacing. Fenris pacing still wasn’t a good sign. The way he did it had always reminded Dorian of a caged wolf – stalking, predatory, dangerous. _“Amatus,”_ Dorian tried again, his voice still soft. “You remember what it’s like to be that age.”

Suddenly Fenris stopped. Whirled, eyes flashing. “When I was his age, I lost my innocence the day Danarius inscribed his filthy markings in me,” he growled, voice rising even higher. “I will not allow the same thing to happen to my son!”

_Protective. Ferociously so._ Fenris couldn’t help it – it was his nature. For Dorian, for the children, for Krem – Fenris would have willingly thrown his life away to protect any of them.

Dorian matched his gaze for a moment, then he let it drop to the desk with a sigh. Of course Fenris loved both the children, Dorian knew that. But only now did he realize just how badly Fenris did not want to lose their son.

Alexandria had always been away at the Circle, so letting her go was easier, but since they’d unofficially adopted Cynarel, the boy had always lived with them.

Dorian stepped away from the desk. Moved to stand before Fenris. Placed both hands on Fenris’ shoulders. Gray eyes soft, loving, as they delved into green. “You can’t hold onto him forever, _amatus,”_ Dorian said, in his most gentle and reasonable tone. “You know that. And you know that he’s not happy here.”

Fenris met his gaze for a long time. Then, finally, he sighed, as resignation replaced the anger in his eyes. “I know,” he reluctantly admitted. “I just...”

Dorian waited for Fenris to finish that thought. But he didn’t. Nor did he really need to. “I know.”

Fenris sighed again as Dorian’s hands gently stroked along his shoulders, then up and down his arms. Soothing. Offering comfort. “Dorian,” Fenris said eventually. “You really believe that this is the best solution?”

Fenris had capitulated. Which meant that Dorian had won the argument, without actually having to resort to shouting. Still, this was one argument he didn’t feel good about winning. “I do.”

Dorian watched Fenris worry his lip with his teeth. Thinking hard. Trying to resist the idea. “Well, I... I suppose you’re right.”

Dorian offered him a smile. Slid his hands back up Fenris’ shoulders and up until he was cupping Fenris’ face in his palms. Then leaned down to press a soft, conciliatory kiss upon his lips.

For a moment, Fenris remained still as Dorian kissed him.

Dorian had only meant the gesture to be a sign of his affection. A chaste thing. Certainly this wasn’t the moment to instigate anything more intimate. So he was surprised when Fenris pressed up against him, hands snaking around to Dorian’s back, holding him tight, as Fenris’ mouth suddenly mashed up against his.

It wasn’t that they never had sex anymore. They did, only with far less frequency and lacking in that frenzied passion that had marked the early years of their relationship. So it had been a long time since Fenris had kissed him, and even longer since Fenris had kissed him like _this._

Dorian made a muffled noise of delighted surprise as Fenris surged against him, maneuvering him back until they crashed against the desk, as his tongue darted forcefully into Dorian’s mouth.

Something had gotten into Fenris. Dorian wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but he wasn’t going to stop the elf’s onslaught to investigate, especially if it meant reliving a certain moment in which Fenris had once deliciously and quite memorably taken him bent over a desk.

One of Fenris’ hands slid down to cup Dorian’s ass, soundly squeezing, as his thigh ground up between Dorian’s legs. His other hand twisted firmly in Dorian’s hair, urging Dorian’s head back. A small breathless sound escaped the elf as his mouth slipped from Dorian’s. Fenris sucked and bit a trail along Dorian’s jaw and down his neck, causing the mage to gasp.

Dorian shivered as Fenris purred against his ear. “I am yours.”

“Fenris... _amatus..._ yours...”

Then the sharp, recognizable rap of Dasio’s knuckles against the door drove them apart.

Dorian smoothed back his hair and tried to swallow his irritation at the interruption as he watched Fenris adjust the erection in his pants. Once they were presentable, Dorian called out. “Come in, Dasio.”

The door swung open. “Lord Dorian? Masters Calix and Julian wish to speak to you most –”

Before the head servant could finish, both Calix and Julian pushed past the elf into the room. Both wearing their Circle robes, both flushed and out of breath.

“Dorian!” Calix panted. “Haven’t you heard...?”

Baffled, Dorian stared at them. “Heard?”

“The Divine,” Julian managed. “He’s dead.”

Shock rocketed through Dorian. “The Divine is dead?” His gaze darted between his two friends. “How? When?”

“Assassinated,” Julian stated bluntly. “This morning.”

“Dorian,” Calix wheezed. “The Circle... for the next Divine... they’ve put forward your name.”

At this, Dorian felt his head spinning. He staggered back. Fortunately, the desk was right behind him. Squeezing its edge with both hands, he stared at the other enchanters. _“Me?_ They’ve nominated _me_ for the post of Divine?”

Fenris’ eyes were full of surprise as he swiveled towards Dorian. “They want to make you the next Divine?” he asked, incredulous. “But you’re not a cleric. You don’t even _believe_ in the Chantry.”

Calix sucked in a steadying breath. “Affiliation with the Chantry isn’t necessary. When the Divine passes without having named an heir, then a mage from the Circle of Minrathous is chosen as his replacement.” He paused, giving Dorian a poignant glace. “And Dorian is undoubtedly the most famous mage in the Circle of Minrathous.”

Julian straightened, his eyes narrowing darkly. “Dorian. If they actually elect you – you’ll be the most powerful man in all of Tevinter.”

Calix emitted a soft, nervous laugh. “The most powerful man in _Thedas.”_

Dorian paused, trying to wrap his mind around what they were saying. The Divine was dead – murdered. Perhaps even by the Archon – there had always been bad blood between the two men, rumors of blackmail... And the Divine, who was still not a very old man, had thus far refused to choose an heir, unless the man chosen took steps to inherit the title sooner, rather than later. Still, he’d never imagined that someday he would even have a chance at the post.

_Oh, the glorious things I could do with such power... the changes I could make..._

He slowly became aware that both of his friends and Fenris were staring at him, anxiously waiting for his response to the news that he may very well become _the most powerful man in Thedas._

Dorian’s sly smile uncurled across this face. “The Circle couldn’t have chosen a better man for the job,” he said. “And fortunately, I do look quite dashing in black.”


	5. Dorian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer chapter because I had to fit in all the sex and fluff our Dorian deserves. I hope the ending satisfies!

Dorian retied the sash of his silk dressing gown as he stood before the bedroom mirror.

He considered himself as objectively as possible. He’d managed to stay in reasonably good shape for a man his age. Good breeding certainly helped, though he was less muscular than he used to be, and just a bit softer around the middle.

Lifting his gaze, Dorian ran a hand through his hair. It was still thick, and still mostly dark, despite the large number of gray hairs scattered evenly throughout. Still, the gray wasn’t so very noticeable except from up close, so Dorian hadn’t yet resorted to the use of dyes to cover it.

Looking at his own face, though, Dorian fretted. More and more often as he looked in the mirror, he saw his father’s face. The lines around his mouth and in his forehead incised deeper. Cobweb-fine lines at the corners of his eyes. The subtle sag of skin, softening his jaw with the hint of jowls. Still, despite the slightly weathered look about him, he was still handsome. No man was going to call him a porcelain pretty boy again – distinguished, yes. But pretty, no.

In the mirror’s reflection, he could see Fenris, glasses perched on his nose, reading in the bed behind him. Fenris – who had just turned fifty-one a few months ago, right before Wintersend. _Maker, when did we get so old?_ Briefly, Dorian considered the man who had been sharing his bed for over a decade. Elves did age better than humans, but Fenris certainly wasn’t a young man anymore. He was indecently scarred. Muscles ropy. Wrinkled. Hands rough with age. And yet Dorian still thought that Fenris was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.

Fenris glanced up from his book to meet Dorian’s gaze in the mirror. He removed his glasses, then smiled softly. “Dorian, you must be tired. Stop admiring yourself and come to bed.”

The past three days, Dorian had been busy. After Calix and Julian’s announcement that Dorian had been nominated to become the next Divine, he’d been caught up in a whirlwind of activity at the Circle. It seemed that anyone and everyone in the Magisterium wanted a piece of his time. He’d barely had a moment to spare for his family, much less Krem. Fortunately, Varian had offered to host the party for Dorian’s name-day tomorrow, which meant that he’d been able to relinquish all the last-minute planning to his friend.

Dorian turned, then padded across the room, where he tossed himself stomach down and leaned up on his elbows next to Fenris on the bed. Glanced at the book in Fenris’ lap. “What’s that?”

Fenris smiled at him again. This time playfully. “A book.”

“I can bloody well see that it’s a book,” Dorian sniffed. “Does it have a title?”

Still smiling, Fenris tilted up the book to show Dorian the cover.

_Slave to Love._

“Andraste’s arse,” Dorian muttered, feeling positively mortified. “I can’t believe you’re actually reading that trash.”

Fenris eyed him with amusement. “You mean the trash you bought?”

Dorian regretted the impulsiveness of that purchase. He cleared his throat. “Yes, well... I only... that is to say, the, ah, subject matter isn’t what I... ugh.”

Fenris laughed softly. “Dorian. It’s fine. As long as you tell me that you only like it for the smutty parts.”

Dorian cocked an eyebrow. Given Fenris’ feelings about slavery, the elf’s attitude of tolerance was surprising – even if were merely fiction. “Well,” Dorian admitted. “That scene in the fields – I don’t know if you read that, but... it was rather  _arousing.”_

“In that case... perhaps I should fuck you into the mud until you scream for mercy.”

Dorian considered how it would feel to reenact that scene with himself and Fenris as the protagonists. Coupled with the memory of how Fenris had seemingly been ready and eager to pound him into the desk the other day, he wasn’t surprised to feel his body reacting. Dorian was acutely aware of his stiffening prick, trapped uncomfortably between his hips and the mattress.

Dorian glanced up at Fenris through the fan of his lashes. “You know... it’s been a while since we had sex.”

One of Fenris’ eyebrows quirked up slightly. “You don’t want to wait until tomorrow?”

Dorian shifted, rolling over. Instant relief as his cock, at more than half-mast, bounded up to tent the silk of his robe. “This is the last chance I’ll have to have sex as a forty-four year old man. Forty-five might be different. Worse.”

Fenris’ eyes shifted down. Noted Dorian’s state. Then he set the book and his glasses on the bedside table. Smiled as his hand flicked out, fingers deftly working loose the knot of Dorian’s dressing robe, then pushing the silk aside. Dorian made an encouraging little sound of pleasure as Fenris’ fingers began to teasingly trail up and down Dorian’s arousal.

Then, fingers withdrew, all too soon. “Roll over.”

“How romantic,” Dorian murmured, but was already complying with Fenris’ command.

Fenris laughed softly. “Pass me the tin.”

Dorian’s tone was almost indignant as he lifted his head to shoot Fenris a look over his shoulder. “‘Pass me the tin’... is  _that_ where you’re starting?” 

In response, Fenris put his hands on Dorian. Pushed the silk of his robe up and out of the way. Then leaned down to sink his teeth into the bronze flesh of Dorian’s ass. Hard.

Dorian yelped.

Then stretched out an arm, fumbling in the drawer until his fingers clamped down upon the tin.

A moment later, he felt Fenris’ fingers sliding against him. Gentle, at first. Expertly teasing. By now, Fenris knew everything about Dorian’s body. How he liked to be touched. What turned him on. What pace to set. Tonight, though, Fenris was wasting no time. Once he sensed that Dorian was ready, he slipped one oiled finger in.

An involuntary gasp broke free of Dorian’s throat as Fenris immediately found Dorian’s sensitive spot. And continued, almost lazily, to stroke it.

Dorian latched onto one of the pillows. Stifled a moan into it. Maker, he could feel Fenris’ touch radiating out through his entire body in the form of pleasurable electric shocks. Soon he was writhing, his hips canting into the bed, enjoying the additional feel of friction as he rubbed up against the mattress.

Dorian was somewhat certain that he was drooling by the time Fenris inserted another finger. He was also certain that he didn’t care. Still, he was aware that it was terribly selfish of him to just lie here and let Fenris do all the work.

Dorian stretched out an arm. Wiggled his fingers. “Fenris... cock.”

Fenris made a small grunt of agreement. Then shifted closer to Dorian’s side, reaching for the mage’s hand.

Lying on his stomach, with his arm stretched down alongside his body, wasn’t the ideal position for what he was doing. After only a few awkward tugs, Dorian heard Fenris laugh softly. “Dorian. I’m not some cow you’re supposed to be milking.”

_“Kaffas,”_ Dorian muttered, indignant again. “Do I look like someone who has ever milked a cow?”

Once again, Fenris laughed. Then coaxed Dorian to roll over so that now the mage was on his back, legs spread, as Fenris moved so that he was he was straddling one of Dorian’s thighs.

“Much better,” Dorian said approvingly as his hand settled once again, fingers curling around Fenris’ hard length. “I always knew you were a –  _uh!”_ Dorian cried out as Fenris suddenly thrust three fingers deep inside him. “Oh Maker...” 

Fenris smiled indulgently as Dorian squirmed beneath him, trying to lift his legs higher and open them wider to give Fenris better access. Even though, in his distraction, Dorian had forgotten what his hand was supposed to be doing.

Still, this was for Dorian’s name-day, after all. Fenris was more interested in Dorian’s pleasure than his own.

Most unwelcome at this moment were those words that Hawke had thrown at his retreating back.  _Back to your magister?_ Words tinged with jealousy. Words intended to provoke. To  _hurt._

Except that later, Fenris had reconsidered those words. Dorian was a mage. A magister. Fenris had stopped caring about that a long time ago. He didn’t even care if Dorian became the Black Divine. No, what mattered was that Dorian Pavus was  _his._

Fenris shifted again so that he was now between Dorian’s legs. Dorian made a small whimper of protest as Fenris withdrew his fingers, then sighed contentedly, throwing his arms about Fenris’ neck as the elf eased himself inside.

“Maker’s blood, Fenris,” Dorian murmured, voice unsteady and breathless as Fenris finally slid all the way in. _“Fuck,_ I love you.”

Fenris laughed softly. “How romantic,” he teased. Then enjoyed how Dorian’s fingernails dug into his back as he slowly slid back out of the mage’s body before slamming back in again.

All of Dorian’s breath rushed out. Then it was just hard to breathe as Fenris began to move steadily against him.  _“Amatus._ .. Maker... kiss me.”

Fenris leaned down to press his mouth to Dorian’s. Delighted in the dance of their tongues and the soft, muffled moans Dorian was making as Fenris continued to pull all the way out before thrusting back in again. Delighted in the feel of Dorian’s fingers twining into and gently pulling his hair as the mage leaned up to eagerly return his kisses.

Parting, Fenris leaned back. “Fast or slow?”

“Fast.” Dorian’s response was whip quick. “Fast and hard.” He smiled sultrily. “I want to still be feeling it when I’m forty-five.”

A sly smile appeared on Fenris’ lips.  _“Amatus,”_ he purred in his most velvety voice. “When I’m done with you, you’ll still be feeling it when you’re forty- _six.”_

***

The Prasinus estate was the largest and most opulent house in all of the Gilded Quarter.

And Varian had spared no expense on Dorian’s party.

Tables lined the frescoed walls of the ballroom, laden with a number of Tevinter specialties. There were oysters and pickled eels to start, along with bowls of olives and almonds. Next, there was fish baked in pastry, small sausages still hot from the grill, dormice stuffed with minced pork and herbs, roasted boar doused with pepper and cloves, peacock tongues in aspic, roasted duck with hazelnuts, suckling pig, and more. For dessert, there was fried bread drizzled with honey, stuffed dates, tiny cakes and wide platters bearing fruits – apples, pears, plums, grapes, rose hips and pomegranates – scattered about. All the while, servants dressed in livery milled through the crowd, carrying trays of _mulsum_ – honeyed wine – and _calda_ – hot spiced wine.

Above the tables, forming a box around the perimeter, mage lights hung suspended in the air, slowly changing colors from yellow to green to blue, bathing everything in soft light. Every window, table, archway and bannister was festooned with fresh flowers, mostly roses, lilies, gladioli, and violets. The white marble floor was polished to a high sheen, which seemed to faintly glow from the light of the two moons shining down through the open ceiling.

Since Dorian had been nominated for the vacant post of Divine, everyone in Minrathous – and from far beyond – had begun to scramble for an invitation to his name-day party. And everyone was now watching.

Oblivious to the attention, Dorian lingered near the dessert table, cup of wine in hand, with his dearest friend in all the world, Cremisius Aclassi. Who – at Dorian’s insistence – was _not_ dressed in his usual clothing. Instead, using emotional blackmail, Dorian had convinced his ex-bodyguard to dress in the height of Tevinter fashion. After all, a man only turned forty-five once. And – didn’t he owe Dorian _something_ for running off on him to become a _pirate?_

“I’m still not sure how I’m gonna manage to get out of these clothes later,” Krem grumbled.

Dorian smiled. “I’m sure that Isabela would be willing to help. Just tell her that you’re playing hide and seek with your body, and, if she can find it, your prick will be her prize.”

Krem cocked an eyebrow. “You’re drunk already, ain’t you?”

“Not drunk enough for this crowd,” Dorian replied. Then his smile grew more sly. “You know... if Isabela’s too tired, Cremisius, I’d be delighted to help you out of those clothes later.”

Somewhere behind the mage’s shoulder there was a soft growl. “Dorian.”

“You _are_ drunk,” Krem decided. He glanced over Dorian’s shoulder at Fenris lurking behind him. “Elf, you may want to keep on eye on your dirty old man.”

“Excuse me?” Dorian sputtered. “What did you just call me?”

“Dorian,” Krem said patiently, though his eyes were laughing. “You do know you shouldn’t flirt with married men, right?”

“Or any man,” Fenris mumbled, just under his breath.

Dorian made a vague wave of dismissal with his hand. “It’s my name-day, so I can do whatever I damn well please.”

Krem pursed his lips, clearly considering. Then he tilted his head, giving Dorian a sidelong look. “Well, since I didn’t actually have time to bring you a present, then... I suppose it’d be fine if you grabbed my ass later.”

Dorian’s eyes lit up.

Fenris growled softly. “There will be no ass grabbing,” he muttered. “And, you, human – if you continue to encourage him, I will kill you regardless of whose uncle you are.”

Krem laughed.

Before Dorian could speak again, Alex bounded up. Trailing behind her, both Isabela and Cynarel. Smiling, Alex latched onto Dorian’s arm. “Father! There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Ever since Alex was a child, Dorian had danced with her at every name-day and Wintersend party, so he assumed that she had sought him out for this reason. “Are we dancing without music this time?”

“Music? Oh, no, that’s not it. I just wanted to give you your present.”

Dorian blinked. “You got me a present?”

“Well, this name-day is important, so... of course I did.”

Dorian felt that same familiar feeling again – as if his heart were wrapped up in a warm, tight glove. “I... very well, poppet. As you wish.”

Alex beamed. “Good. Now. All of you. Come with me.”

Dorian allowed himself to be dragged along as the others followed. Dropping his empty glass elegantly on the tray of a passing servant, he asked, “And where, exactly, are we going?”

“Senior Enchanter Prasinus said we could use his study.”

As his daughter led him out of the ballroom, down the corridor, and into the nearby study, Dorian wondered just what this present could be. And then be became more intrigued as he spied the gift upon the desk. Below a swatch of black silk, an object was hidden, no larger than a wine bottle. As Alex released his arm, Dorian approached it. Reached out a hand, fingers snagging the silk and then pulling it away to reveal a long, narrow, pale blue crystal set upon a small lacquered stand.

Dorian studied it for a moment before lifting his eyes. His daughter stood beside him, while the others – Fenris, Cynarel, Krem, and Isabela – lingered near the door. “What is it?”

“It’s a holding crystal,” Alex explained. “It holds memories.” She then indicated the letters etched into the base of the stand. “See here? If you touch this side of the crystal, this is me.” She indicated the other sides. “Here’s Cyn. Uncle Krem. And Fenris.”

Dorian glanced at Fenris. His look said: _You actually let Alex use magic on you?_

Fenris just shrugged his response. 

“I see,” Dorian said. Although, in truth, he didn’t.

Not until he touched one side of the crystal.

Into Dorian’s mind, Alex’s memories steadily streamed. At the center of each memory he saw, he was the center. But he didn’t just see them – he  _experienced_ them. Felt what his daughter had felt.

_Dancing at the Wintersend party in Qarinus – drinking hot chocolate together late at night – an afternoon in the library as Dorian shone with pride as Alex performed an advanced feat of magic – Alex, alighting from the carriage for Summersday, running into his arms – shopping in Minrathous, just the two of them, followed by tea in the Hanging Gardens – the first time she beat Dorian at chess – Dorian’s tears of pride as Alex passed the test..._

Mixed with all these memories, all the joy, happiness, and love that Alex felt for him. Her desire to please him. To make  _him_ happy. Anything to make him happy.  _Anything._

Dorian’s throat was tight, his eyes prickling with unshed tears as he withdrew his hand from the crystal. Turning his head, he met Alex’s gaze. Her own eyes shimmered, expectant.

Dorian had to swallow hard, twice, before he could speak. Even so, his voice was breaking. “Oh, poppet, this is truly....” He swallowed again. “It’s... extraordinary.”

Alex’s lip quivered with emotion. Her voice soft when she spoke again. “Try a different side, Father.”

Dorian wasn’t sure if he could take any more like that. He glanced at his son briefly before he touched Cynarel’s side. Braced himself as the memories rushed in.

_Cyn’s exuberant laughter as he and Dorian drew pictures together at the table – Dorian carrying a small, sleepy Cynarel through Qarinus when the carriage broke down, tucked safely in his arms – Dorian performing silly magic tricks to entertain him in the library – Dorian playing with him, making animals out of soap bubbles as the boy splashed in the bath – Dorian helping Cynarel into his first adult formal wear on his thirteenth name-day, showing him how to tie the cravat – Dorian holding him and stroking his hair, saying I love you so very much._

Dorian hadn’t expected this. Each memory infused with admiration. With all of the love that had remained hidden, unexpressed. But so very real and profound.

Dorian’s eyes were glistening with tears as he glanced at his son. At seeing all of the emotion on his father’s face, Cynarel quickly flustered, and turned his gaze to the ground as he tried to rub surreptitiously at his own eyes.

Dorian drew a breath. Then reached out to touch Krem’s side.

The shift in perspective jarred him. In his children’s memories, they had been looking up him. Krem’s perspective, of course, was on an even level – a man’s perspective – eye to eye.

_A younger Dorian, conducting an early meeting of the altus army in the Wyvern’s Cafe – Dorian, bright and laughing as he tossed off his clothes in Varian’s small guestroom – Dorian fighting at Krem’s side, making graceful, dramatic movements as he cast his spells – drinking together at the Black Stone tavern in Nessum – Dorian and Fenris playing cards with Krem on his sickbed at Aunt Cassia’s mansion – Dorian lecturing to the young magi in the Circle – Dorian in the Magisterium, burning with the fire of conviction as his fist pounded the table to emphasize his point – Dorian half-carrying Krem, both wounded, through the chaos in the streets as the buildings burned and masters were dragged out of their beds, throats cut by the revolting slaves – Dorian at his desk, a half dozen candles gutted out as he worked through the night, determined to save their country..._

A strange noise caught in Dorian’s throat. Every memory had been colored by a depth of feeling Dorian had never suspected possible from the ex-soldier. Genuine admiration. Belief. Respect. The unfaltering love of a brother of blood. 

Dorian could barely meet Krem’s eyes. Krem’s expression was soft, but he was smiling, as if to say,  _Don’t get all mushy on me now, Chief._

Dorian quickly turned back to the crystal.

There was only one facet left.

Fenris.

After eleven years together, Dorian knew how Fenris felt about him. Fenris loved him. The elf was loyal to a fault. Perhaps this is why Dorian had resisted every temptation which had crossed his path in the form of a young, handsome man who shared his tastes, and was just looking for a little “fun.” The offers had been numerous, but Dorian had remained faithful to Fenris.

Still, he was grossly under-prepared for the depths of emotion that washed over him as he touched Fenris’ side of the crystal.

_A younger Dorian, in the bath, as Fenris washed his back, eyes tracing the lines of Dorian’s glorious body – in the bed at Varian’s, heart thumping as Dorian’s fingers traced over his skin – the first kiss they’d shared, Fenris trembling with need and fear – in the room in Nessum, writhing together in the sheets – Dorian’s fingers curling around his neck at Tilani’s party – Dorian signing the papers, granting Fenris his freedom before the judge – Dorian and Fenris making love in Minrathous – Dorian by the window in moonlight – Dorian and Fenris tucking the children into bed – Dorian bringing Cynarel to sleep with them after a nightmare – Dorian signing the adoption papers to make Cynarel his heir – Dorian fussing over Fenris when he was ill – Dorian squeezing his hand as they watched the sun set over the sea..._

Overcome, Dorian dropped his hand as the first sob escaped his throat. 

He wasn’t alone.

He was  _loved._

Suddenly, there were hands upon him. A murmur of voices. His true love, his children, his best friend. He wasn’t even ashamed that he was crying. Instead, he let the tears flow as he opened his arms and gathered them all in.

***

Later, after Dorian had composed himself back to the picture of perfect indifference, they returned to the ballroom.

Finding the host, Dorian flashed white teeth at him. “I say, Varian,” Dorian drawled. “You do seem to have crammed half of Minrathous in this room. One properly placed fireball and fashion would thank you.”

Mirth sparkled in Varian’s eyes. “If you set anything on fire, Dorian, I’d suggest that you go no further than  _clothes.”_

“Hmm. I’m not quite sure how I’d feel about seeing half of these people stark naked. A rather dreadful image, really.”

“But it would be a wonderful display of skill.”

Dorian became instantly thoughtful. “Actually...”

Isabela laughed. “I’d pay good coin to see that.”

Fenris growled softly at her. “Do not encourage him.”

Krem’s eyes laughed.

As if signaled, the musicians at the far end of the ballroom began to play.

Smiling, Varian held out a hand to Alex. “Enchanter Alexandria of House Pavus, may I have this dance?”

Alex agreed, and Varian swept her off to the dance floor where other couples were already gathering.

Isabela gave Cynarel a sugary grin. “So, my dear nephew. Krem has two left feet. I’ve seen wyverns fighting who were more graceful than he is. Being an elf, I bet you’re much lighter on your feet. Dance with your old auntie?”

Cyn glanced briefly at Krem, who just shrugged, then escorted Isabela to the floor.

Krem, Dorian and Fenris stood for a moment, just watching the dancers from the sidelines.

Then Krem snickered softly. “Just like old times.”

Dorian glanced at Fenris. His silent sword.

In his head, his daughter’s words still pricked at him.

_Father... it’s not right that you treat Fenris like a servant in public._

In Tevinter, men didn’t marry each other. In Dorian’s class, marriage was a contract between families for the purpose of breeding more mages. Perfect mages. Dorian had already scandalized society by refusing outright to marry a woman, though his adoption of Alexandria had eventually quelled the voices. 

As his eye fell to the band around Krem’s finger, he felt bit of envy. Isabela and Krem had made their relationship official to the world – something that he and Fenris could never do. Not without taking a risk. Not without the possibility of scandal. At best, it would scar his reputation. At worst, he’d become the laughing stock of the Magisterium, and could kiss any chance of becoming the next Divine good-bye.

However, Maevaris had done it somehow. She’d made her relationship with her dwarf public and official. Married in the eyes of the Maker, if not the law. Dorian remembered the backlash, but Mae, with her typical aplomb, had managed to weather the storm – through bribery, intimidation, and an attitude of  _fuck it all._

So, why couldn’t he?

He found that the answer to that question was actually rather simple.

Fenris startled as Dorian turned to face him, body bending into an elegant little bow as he held out one hand, his lips curving into his mustache as his eyes glimmered with intent. “Dance with me.”

Frozen, Fenris stared at him.

Then Fenris staggered forward, almost into Dorian’s arms, as Krem gave him a shove from behind.

Dorian caught Fenris’ hand in his own. Still smiling, he began drawing Fenris along towards the dance floor. He only barely caught a glimpse of Krem’s approving grin, and quietly murmured,  _Well done, Chief._

“Dorian,” Fenris protested in a low voice as Dorian continued to pull him along. “What are you  _doing?_ Have you lost your mind? Everyone is  _looking.”_

Dorian’s smile never faltered. “What am I doing? I’m dancing with the man I love.” Having arrived at the center of the room, Dorian tugged lightly on Fenris’ hand, coaxing him closer. Fenris stiffened as Dorian’s other hand slid around his back. “And everyone should look at us,” he added. “I’ve always thought we look quite good together.”

An uncharacteristic blush crept up in Fenris’ cheeks, and reddened the tips of his ears. “But there will be  _talk,”_ he murmured weakly. “And I... and I don’t know how to dance.”

“Then  _I_ will lead,” Dorian said decisively. “Just keep an eye on my feet, if you have to.”

“But –”

“I don’t care if they talk,” Dorian said. “I only care about you. And I won’t pretend anymore that you are not my  _amatus.”_

Fenris opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Then stumbled a bit as Dorian took a step, pressing him backwards. Straightened as Dorian’s hands steadied him. Reluctantly let his free hand fall to Dorian’s shoulder as Dorian began to dance him around the room.

Fenris watched Dorian’s feet at first. And then, once he’d let his body settle into the rhythm that Dorian had set, he lifted his gaze. As he’d suspected, everyone in the room was watching them. Upon their faces he caught glimpses of shock, or knowing condescension.

But, among the crowd, he also caught glimpses of Krem and Isabela, of Cynarel and Alexandria. All of them smiling approvingly, eyes alight with joy.

As Fenris locked gazes with him, Dorian smiled.

Fenris smiled back.

As the music played on, they danced.

 


End file.
